


All He Asks For

by Wheely_Jessi



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Context of COVID-19, Disability, F/F, Family Fluff, Father-Daughter Relationship, Isolation, Medical Humour, Musical References, Personal Care Support, Quarantine, shielding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: Mid-April 2020.A modern AU where Mr Mount moved back to London after his Motor Neurone Disease diagnosis, and Patsy is now shielding with him as his primary carer whilst Delia is still working as a midwife. Supportive family fluff as they all navigate the period of separation during lockdown.
Relationships: Delia Busby & Patsy Mount, Delia Busby & Patsy Mount's Father, Delia Busby & Phyllis Crane, Delia Busby/Patsy Mount, Patsy Mount & Patsy Mount's Father, Patsy Mount & Phyllis Crane
Comments: 15
Kudos: 27





	All He Asks For

**Author's Note:**

> Content Note for: Context of COVID-19, disability, personal care support and medication
> 
> Music here (lyrics in the text): https://youtu.be/OVPOcnhNyAY, https://youtu.be/TYIl6n_SRCI, https://youtu.be/3EoI-6lQFIE.

‘ _Urgh_!’ Patsy groaned in frustration, slamming her laptop closed. ‘Yet more companies that won’t let me order as an individual,’ she went on, glancing over towards her father’s profiling bed as she spoke from her seat at the desk in his room. ‘Looks like I’ll have to get the sewing machine out, Papa.’

Charles tutted. ‘I didn’t catch a word of that,’ he said, his voice soft and wavering, but still clear. She felt a lump rise in her own throat, in relief that his speech had so far been mostly spared – and comparatively late on, too. Motor Neurone Disease really was a rollercoaster, yet at times like these she could not but be grateful for the wildly individualised nature of its progression.

However, keeping her composure as she removed the mask she was currently wearing, she let none of her feelings show, and simply shot him a sheepish grin. ‘Gosh, no, I don’t suppose you did. Sorry! I was only saying that at this rate I’ll have to get the sewing machine out because I’m still struggling to find a company that’ll let me order PPE as an individual buyer. Which is fine in terms of masks, just not everything else. And even making masks will be fiddly, because I’ll need to put in a transparent panel so you can see what I’m saying,’ she finished with a giggle.

He laughed, too (a strange gurgle of a noise, because emotions were harder to enunciate than words, but a laugh nevertheless), then tutted again. ‘I could get you plenty of PPE by sending a single email, remember.’

She raised her eyebrows, fighting the impulse to pinch either side of the bridge of her nose, and simply answered, ‘That’s unethical in the circumstances.’

He smiled the smile she knew so well from catching the occasional glimpse of hers in the mirror, and hummed. ‘Your choice. I can either pull some strings or you can agree to my initial suggestion that you don’t actually need to wear any when you’re working with me because we aren’t interacting with anyone else.’

Her heart clenched. He sounded so earnest, and had managed to speak for so long without struggling too much that she wanted to grant his wish, but she could not bring herself to be careless on principle. And they had already used up most of the stock she had scrabbled to find. So she sighed, clarifying, ‘Could you get some for the rest of the team at the hospital, too?’ and cringed as she capitulated to what felt like the lesser of two evils in this strange new world where medical necessity could skew even the most secure sense of morality.

He smiled wider, his face full of compassion and without a trace of triumph. ‘Your colleagues will be taken care of, my daughter,’ he rasped, though she could hear the emphatic undertone of parental reassurance. ‘And your wife.’

‘And my wife,’ she repeated weakly, whilst matching his grin. ‘Thank you, Papa.’

‘No need,’ he responded immediately. ‘You’ll be typing the email. Besides,’ he added, after a breath, ‘I ought to be the one thanking you.’

‘Whatever for?’ she asked, genuinely confused.

‘Oh,’ he said airily, ‘only the small matter of persuading me to return to England when I was diagnosed. It was a clever ruse of yours to invite me to walk you down the aisle.’

She feigned shock. ‘I’m not sure _what_ you mean.’

The gurgling sound reappeared as he chuckled. ‘Still, thank you. For that, and everything since. Especially shielding with me at the moment, even though it means you can’t work, or see Delia.’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she said, completely sincere now, though she kept her voice light. ‘As you know, Deels was only too eager to take up the offer of early registration and get back on a ward properly now she’s retrained, and it made sense this way around. I’d far rather be here with you, making sure you’re safe, and minimise the number of people you have trooping in and out. And anyway,’ she continued, after pausing for a giggle herself, ‘being isolated together means we have no excuse not to work through the mess we’ve both avoided discussing since you moved back.’

‘Literally,’ he replied, deadpan, and she followed the slight shift of his gaze towards the chest of drawers that held the various necessary items for his toileting routine, and the commode chair parked beside it.

Caught off guard, she laughed aloud, glad she was still sitting. Then, calming down, she quipped back, ‘At least I can be certain where my sense of humour comes from,’ before standing up and deciding to use the natural flow of their conversation strategically. ‘On that note, shall we get you up and showered, now _I’ve_ finished getting frustrated with the internet?’

He smiled in apparent agreement, and she grinned too, before starting to walk to the en suite. She’d hardly taken three steps when she heard him speak. ‘No mask, though. Or gloves.’

Turning on her heel abruptly, she fixed him with a stern look. ‘ _Papa._ ’

‘Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady,’ he returned, his voice steady, and almost exactly like when she _was_ young.

The change was enough of a surprise to make her blush. ‘Sorry.’

He just smiled. ‘It’s all right. You’re still adjusting. We both are. But – and it’s a _big_ but – whilst the situation might mean you’re caring for me for the foreseeable future, I’m still your father. And more than that, _because_ of the situation, I need as much agency as I can get right now.’

She nodded, her blush fading as she mirrored his grin; but she was aware hers had a slightly guilty edge to it. ‘I know you do. And I really am sorry. We should’ve set ground rules to start with.’

‘We thought we could muddle through,’ he reasoned, and she nodded again so as not to interrupt. ‘And we’ve done okay so far. But these are “unprecedented times” as the politicians keep telling us. Balancing hygiene and safety with practicality and comfort was always going to be a sticking point. And it’s clearly one we need to address in more depth.’

‘Indeed,’ she said with a wry smile at his diplomatic choice of words. ‘All right then. How do you want to play this?’

‘I want you to come over here, firstly.’ She opened her mouth to protest, but something in his expression suggested she should hold her peace. ‘It’s tiring speaking up,’ he went on, the admission telling her she had been right to wait. ‘But actually, if I don’t, you’ll insist on putting your mask on to get closer. Which would defeat the object before I’ve explained my thinking. So,’ he paused, ostensibly to catch his breath, but really, she knew, to give her a chance to process. ‘What I want is for you to think about three things. One, you’ve been self-isolating in my spare room since the middle of February, because Violet wasn’t sure when she’d need to stop working with me in order to have Reggie home. That’s way beyond the two week quarantine guidelines. Two, we already got food delivered before this, which means you haven’t had to go out shopping at all. Three, people with MND aren’t even officially supposed to shield –’

The third thing made her cut him off. ‘That’s because of incompetence, not medical advice. The MND Association are campaigning to get it classified in the “extremely vulnerable” group, remember, but aren’t having much luck. So now they urge everyone to self-register. Which you did, because you wanted to be _sure_ our delivery slots would be available. I’ll accept your first point, though,’ she conceded, grinning again, ‘at least until we get proper PPE.’

‘Good,’ he said, ‘because, as _you_ pointed out, I need to understand what you’re saying – and I gather there’s not yet a widely-available surgical mask that incorporates the clear panel. And gloves catch on my skin. Also, as we have to be close through necessity, I’d prefer to be able to be affectionate with each other.’

She was stunned, and gaped at him, before deflecting with a joke. ‘Don’t push it. I might faint. And then where would you be?’

‘Stuck right here behind the rails of this ridiculously complicated bed,’ he replied smoothly. Well, almost, after picking ridiculously complicated _words_. 

In spite of everything, she could not help giggling. ‘I guess so. Shall we get you out of it, then?’ she asked, laughing more at how their conversation had come full circle, when he once again grinned in assent. ‘I’ll just wash my hands. If you’ll permit me, that is,’ she threw over her shoulder whilst walking into the en suite for a second time.

‘ _Patience Elizabeth Busby-Mount_!’ she heard him grumble from his bed, but her need to retort was softened by his use of her still-novel surname. She bit her lip and, instead of replying quickly, embraced the opportunity to delay by chucking her mask in the bin (as per his instruction) and taking far longer over handwashing than even the protocols suggested. She did that anyway, always, particularly if she was to be working without gloves – but it was an extra convenient excuse at the moment.

 _In_ the moment transpiring between them.

When she was done, she ambled nonchalantly back into his bedroom, and then over to fetch his commode (and shower) chair. Only once she had got it into position, and flicked the brakes on with her foot, did she respond, speaking as she got rid of his quilt. ‘Yes, Papa?’

She saw him hide a smirk at her overly-obsequious tone, and the fact her hands were bare, but his answer was unexpected. ‘You remind me so much of your mother when you get passionate about an issue.’

‘I do?’ she squeaked, grabbing his shower sling from where it hung over the back of the chair to shove it at the bottom of his duvet, and suddenly glad of the preoccupation offered by the bed rail he had mentioned earlier – or, more accurately, of the coaxing required to get it to fold down.

It meant she was saved the awkwardness of eye contact whilst he replied; but she still had to hear. ‘Mhmm. She never reacted well if she felt her ethics were being questioned or compromised. She’d be proud of you, Patsy. You’re as excellent a nurse as she was.’

The rail at last dealt with, she could prevaricate no further, so met his gaze, first offering a grin in thanks because she did not possess the words to articulate how much the comparison – never mind his approval – meant. She needed to say _something_ , though, and yet again resorted to deflecting. ‘I’m not sure I’ll deserve such approbation if I leave you lying down much longer. Positioning is –’

‘Paramount. Yes, I know,’ he quipped drily, cutting her off – but she did not mind one bit.

‘I wasn’t meaning it as a pun,’ she whined, poking her tongue out briefly, before getting back to the task in hand; moving and handling. ‘Right,’ she continued, in a much more measured tone, ‘when you’re ready, I’ll raise your bed so I can reach you better. Then I’ll roll you just enough to get your trousers down, and the sling underneath you and comfy, okay?’

‘Okay,’ he confirmed, grinning up at her now, from the slanted vantage point the required tilt of the head of his bed already afforded. It was unwise for him to lie flat at this stage of his condition, in case it put strain on his breathing. She grinned back and, grabbing the control from its Velcro perch on his headboard, pressed the button to bring the entire bed up to her level – whilst keeping her free left hand on his abdomen for stability.

When the bed was at the right height, she noticed his grin had shifted to discomfort. ‘Did I hurt you?’ she asked, releasing the supportive pressure a little, although her hand stayed where it was.

‘No,’ he said, and the light in his eyes reassured her, ‘but my stomach does…’

He trailed off, looking awkward, and she realised what he meant. ‘Ah. I guess you’ve not been for a while, but we can do something about that. I’ll give you a massage before you get up, if you like? It’ll feel nice, hopefully, not weird – because I’m not wearing gloves. And, if it doesn’t work, we’re well prepared. There’s lactulose in the bathroom cabinet.’

He grimaced. ‘It tastes awful – and swallowing –’

She nodded, cutting him off before his gag reflex could kick in and make him retch. ‘Fair point. We could always try a suppository.’

He gazed up at her in silence for a moment, evidently flabbergasted with horror, and then managed a single word. ‘Oh.’

She giggled, then felt bad, and hoped she would not come across as insensitive. ‘Sorry. It’s just – well, you’ve used them before, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, his cheeks tinged faintly pink, ‘but you’re my _daughter_!’

‘Oh.’ She understood, and it was her turn to be surprised, although she quickly formulated a response. ‘Yes. But I already wipe your bum, which we’ve both come to terms with, and it won’t be that different.’ She paused, giggling, before taking a deep breath and deciding to be brave. ‘Besides, I’m no stranger to them, in my professional life… and personal too. Ask Deels.’

His amazement now had an entirely different source. ‘Really?’

She nodded, feeling _her_ cheeks grow hot. ‘Mhmm. At certain times of the month, or when my appetite’s bad.’

‘Oh, Patsy.’

She blushed even more at the kindness in his voice. ‘I know,’ she said, shyly, ‘and I’m working on it. But there. Share and share alike.’

He chuckled. ‘Indeed. And I appreciate it. But still…’

He trailed off, awkward again, and she switched back to soothing. ‘It’s okay. Last resort. We’ll try a massage first,’ she promised, reaching to replace the control on the headboard. As her hand travelled downwards again, she planned to underscore her intention by undoing the buttons on his pyjama shirt. But something made her hover above his face, and then, seemingly unconsciously, her finger stretched out to stroke his cheek. Both of them flinched briefly at the contact, but they settled, saying nothing, and the silence gave her courage to acquiesce to his earlier request for daughterly affection. So she stooped a little and, following the path of her hand, pressed a soft kiss to his forehead – before pulling away and apologising. ‘Sorry. Where were we? Oh yes, massage.’

With that, she got back to business, at last removing his shirt and beginning to apply gentle pressure to his abdomen. She could not look at him fully, so concentrated on maintaining a clockwise motion, though she glanced up at regular intervals to check his expression. He seemed content, so she continued – until an inhalation made her stop, worried she had hurt him again. When she checked, however, he was smiling. And, after a moment, almost as if he had been waiting for her attention, he opened his mouth… and began, not to speak, but to sing.

It was completely unanticipated, and at first startled her, but then childlike joy overrode her medical concerns and she just let herself listen, matching the rhythm of her hand movements to that of the song. His voice was soft, and the timbre not quite as she remembered. But that made sense, and it was enough that he felt he could even _try_. No matter how much he might shortly regret it. Not least because the focus meant he was distracted from what she was doing, and _why_ it needed to be done.

_‘You’ve got this strange effect on me,  
And I like it.  
You’ve got this strange effect on me,  
And I like it.  
  
You make my world seem right,  
You make my darkness bright, oh yes,  
You’ve got this strange effect on me,  
And I like it.  
And I like it.  
  
And I like the way you kiss me,  
Don’t know if I should.  
But this feeling is love, and I know it,  
That’s why I feel good.  
  
You’ve got this strange effect on me,  
And I like it.  
You’ve got this strange effect on me,  
And I like it.  
  
You make my world seem right,  
You make my darkness bright, oh yes,  
You’ve got this strange effect on me,  
And I like it.  
And I like it.  
And I like it.’_

So she said nothing throughout, waiting for him to finish the final line and catch his breath before talking herself. ‘You and Mama used to sing that together. Dave Berry, right?’

‘Yes.’ He grinned, though whether at the correct guess or her association of the song with a memory, she was unsure – and the addition that followed was completely unrelated to her wonderings. ‘But written by Ray Davies of The Kinks.’

She giggled at their shared musical pedantry. ‘I know how much you love them.’ Then, hitting on an idea as she realised a few more minutes of massage would be useful, _she_ started singing.

_‘The tax man’s taken all my dough  
And left me in my stately home  
Lazing on a sunny afternoon  
And I can’t sail my yacht  
He’s taken everything I’ve got  
All I’ve got’s this sunny afternoon  
  
Save me, save me, save me from this squeeze  
I got a big fat mama trying to break me  
And I love to live so pleasantly  
Live this life of luxury  
Lazing on a sunny afternoon  
In the summertime  
In the summertime  
In the summertime’_

But, as she got to the end of the first chorus, the similarity of the lyrics to her father’s particular circumstances made her snort. ‘Bit close to home, eh, Papa?’

‘Are you mocking my efforts to leave you a suitable inheritance, Patience?’ came an answering grumble from further up the bed.

‘I wouldn’t _dare_ ,’ she replied, unable to prevent a betraying bark of laughter. He hummed, unimpressed, and she relented. ‘Okay, you got me. I couldn’t resist. To make it up to you, you may pick the playlist for your shower.’

 _He_ snorted at that, and said grumpily, ‘I choose quiet, speed and efficiency.’

She knew he was acting out, but understood why, and could hardly _call_ him out for deflecting when it was just as much her habit as his. ‘That’s fine,’ she affirmed, with a last rub across his stomach. Then she straightened up, slipping the shirt off his shoulders, and asked, ‘Ready to roll?’

Half a metaphor and half a literal query.

‘Yes,’ he grunted; but she swore she saw a glimmer of a smile.

Nodding, she went through the motions she had outlined earlier, grinning to herself whilst she rolled him as smoothly as she could onto each side and got his clothes out of the way. Then she stretched the short distance to where the sling was waiting, bringing it up to their end of the bed, and laid its mesh fabric in the spot his body would occupy when he was on his back again. Then she rolled him once more and, giving them both a moment to breathe, reached _upwards_ to fetch yet another control – for the hoist that hung above their heads. Aware he might not hear her over the buzz whilst it moved (and that he was probably still annoyed), she held off from chatting for the whole of its journey. She needed to check in prior to the next stage, though.

‘Am I okay to shift you about a bit to get everything secure before I attach you to the bar?’

‘Yes,’ he said – with a definite smile. ‘Truss me up like a turkey.’

She chuckled, suggesting, ‘I think you’ll be closer to a Christmas pudding,’ as they groaned in unison, frustrated with the continually fiddly balance of avoiding pain and getting the placement right.

That made him laugh too. ‘Shame it’s not a bath – you’d be dunking me in hot water and the comparison would be perfect.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ she agreed, biting her lip to stop a howl of laughter that would be _very_ unhelpful as she tried to hook the loops on in the proper order.

Eventually, thank goodness, they were both satisfied. So, pressing the button to lift him off the bed, she used her free hand to keep the sling, and him, steady; watching his expression for the subtlest signal of fear or hurt. Then, once his feet were clear of anything they might even vaguely catch on, she spun him to face her and shifted to be able to drag him along the H-frame track that ran the length and width of the ceilings in most of the rooms of his flat. Installing it had been an experience neither of them would forget, but the system was more streamlined than the mobile hoist options, and less of a faff if he had agency staff in. Aside from anything else, it eliminated the possibility of having a foot run over. Which was worth it, frankly. Toes – and fingers! – were valuable commodities, even if they appeared otherwise to external observers of his body. And she tried her best to keep them safe as she shifted buttons to start the descent towards his shower chair. But a further balancing act was called for, because she had to unhook him from the hoist before strapping him into the chair…which left him insecure for a second longer than she liked.

There was a reason the guidance emphasised that this sort of transfer be done between two people.

But they had no other option at the moment.

And, even in the world before, a perennial shortage of carers made pairing up a rare thing anyway. Regardless of where the funding came from.

“Live this life of luxury” indeed.

But, refusing to allow resentment to seep in, she found herself needing to speak whilst she got him comfortable. ‘Loo or shower first?’

Awkwardness flashed across his face. ‘I don’t think I’m ready. Sorry.’

‘Hey,’ she cautioned, glad she was done with all the straps and clips so she could soothe him through touch again, stroking his cheek. ‘My habit for excessive apologies is rubbing off on you. It’s fine. You can go to the loo whenever – and as many times – as you need. And no more limiting liquid, okay? Don’t think I haven’t caught on to your tactics. They’re probably contributing to your tummy troubles.’

He looked crestfallen. ‘I just feel weird about needing help…’

‘I know. It’s a family trait as much as a response to the specifics of MND,’ she said, hoping humour was the right call. ‘But it’s not as if we have much else to fill our days during lockdown.’

His eyes lit up as he laughed. ‘True.’

She grinned. ‘Shower, then?’

‘Yes, please, Patsy.’

The polite request made her heart swell with joy and sadness at the same time, but she just flicked the brakes off and pushed him into the bathroom. Parking his chair against the wall nearest the shower, she flicked them on again, flicking _off_ her slippers and bending to roll up her pyjama trousers. Then, at a smile from him, she fetched the hose, checked the temperature dial, and turned the shower on – pointing the head away from both of them until she could feel the water was warm enough. As was his preference, she worked her way down his body (literally head to toe), occasionally resting the hose on his lap when she needed two hands. Once he felt sufficiently clean, and _she_ considered him properly _rinsed_ , she turned the shower off. All that remained to be done was for her to sprint across the room and grab several towels. Some were wrapped around him, causing yet more chuckles, whilst the rest got sandwiched between the back of his chair and her body, leaving her hands empty and ready to push him back to the bedroom. There, she spread the extra towels out on his bed to protect the sheets, before rubbing him down as thoroughly as was feasible with the wet sling still in situ. Then, unwrapping him, she repeated the transfer in reverse whilst they giggled together. They had yet to discover a way around drips appearing as he travelled, because the bathroom was nowhere near big enough to fit a changing bed. At least, she thought, as mirth lit up their matching eyes, he had selected laminate flooring. That was easy to wipe. And it was easi _er_ to confront the contortions required for dressing if he lay down.

So they made do.

They were getting rather good at that.

She knew he still felt shy, however. So (once the sling was out from under him), she decided the embargo on silliness had come to its natural end now that he was settled. With that in mind, she pulled his duvet up for warmth, and clicked the bed rail back into position, only offering a wink in answer to his raised eyebrow – and, taking one of the towels, walked over to the desk. Opening her laptop, she went to YouTube, finding a video and pressing play. As it started, she skipped back to the side of his bed, trying desperately not to ruin the effect before she began mouthing the words… and twirling the towel around as if it were her dancing partner as soon as the full song kicked in.

_‘You broke my heart  
‘Cause I couldn’t dance  
You didn’t even want me around  
And now I’m back to let you know  
I can really shake ‘em down  
  
Do you love me? (I can really move)  
Do you love me? (I’m in the groove)  
Now do you love me (do you love me?)  
Now that I can dance? (dance)  
  
Watch me now (work, work)  
Oh, work it out, baby (work, work)  
Well, you’re drivin’ me crazy (work, work)  
With a little bit of soul now (work)  
  
I can mash potato (I can mash potato)  
And do the twist (I can do the twist)  
Now tell me, baby (tell me, baby)  
Do you like it like this? (do you like it like this?)  
Tell me (tell me)  
Tell me  
  
Do you love me? (do you love me?)  
Now do you love me? (do you love me?)  
Now do you love me (do you love me?)  
Now that I can dance? (dance)  
Dance  
  
Watch me now (work, work)  
Oh, shake it up, shake it (work, work)  
Oh, shake ‘em, shake ‘em down (work, work)  
Oh, little bit of soul now (work)  
  
(Work, work)  
Oh, shake it, shake it, baby (work, work)  
Oh, you’re driving me crazy (work, work)  
Oh, don’t get lazy (work)  
  
I can mash potato (I can mash potato)  
Do the twist (I can do the twist)  
Well, now tell me, baby (tell me, baby)  
Do you like it like this? (do you like it like this?)  
Tell me (tell me)  
Tell me  
  
Oh, do you love me? (do you love me?)  
Now do you love me? (do you love me?)  
Now do you love me? (do you love me?)  
(Now, now, now)  
  
(Hey! work, work)  
Oh, work it out, baby (work, work)  
Well, you’re driving me crazy (work, work)  
Oh, don’t you get lazy (work)  
  
(Work, work)  
Oh, hey, baby (work, work)  
Well, you’re driving me crazy (work, work)’_

He stared at her, his mouth hanging open, for the duration of her dance. But, when the track finally faded out, his reaction faded _in_ – and his whole body rocked with wheezing laughter. So much so that it made him cough, bringing her back to her duty as daughter and nurse. Coughing was a regular occurrence with his condition, so she was not unduly worried, but felt guilty nevertheless. Dropping the towel, she grabbed his bed control, to raise the top half further and thump him gently between his shoulders.

‘Sorry. Perhaps that wasn’t the wisest plan.’

‘What _was_ it?’ he asked after quite a break; but his amusement was clear. ‘I mean, I know the song, but –’

She nodded, comprehending. ‘Goes right back to uni. One of the girls did a silly dance to it to calm a patient down, she told the rest of us about it afterwards, and of course we all insisted on a demonstration.’

‘Well,’ he said, still wheezing a fair bit, ‘it certainly took my breath away.’

‘Oh _don’t_ ,’ she pleaded, grimacing at the thought – but his eyes were twinkling. ‘I guess you’ll need a moment, now?’ she went on.

‘Mhmm,’ he mumbled, and she bent to kiss his forehead, surprising them both. Again.

But the spell was broken by a noise from her phone as a text arrived. ‘Oh. That’s probably Deels and Phyllis in from their night shift.’

‘Call.’

His tone warned her not to argue, so she scuttled back to the desk, and tapped through to ring her wife (having checked it was in fact Delia and contact would be welcome).

‘ _Helo, cariad,_ ’ she heard after what felt like hardly a second of waiting.

She grinned at the soft Welsh lilt of her favourite voice. ‘Hello yourself. All okay?’

‘Yes. I still feel for mothers going through labour wearing masks – it’s bad enough for us assisting – but they’ve all been troopers about it, as Phyllis would say.’

‘I’m so glad. And I’m so proud of you.’

Delia’s laugh reverberated down the line. ‘ _Diolch,_ Pats. You don’t need to say that every day. I’m proud of _you_ , too, though. How are you? And how’s Charles?’

She giggled in spite of herself. ‘We’re fine. Just getting dressed, actually, but when you texted he demanded I call.’

Her wife laughed again. ‘Like father, like daughter. You never know when to put yourselves first. But _I_ can make demands as well, and mine is that you don’t let him get chilled. Send him my love. And I’ll be up for a bit – I’m always too wired to sleep right away – so call whenever you want.’

Her heart clenched at the idea of saying goodbye so quickly, but she knew it was sensible, so just said, ‘I will do. _Caru ti._ ’

‘ _Caru ti hefyd._ ’

She grinned, despite sighing as the call ended, but pulled herself together, walking back to pass on the message. ‘She sends love.’

He matched her smile, but searched her face. ‘Didn’t you want to video chat? It’s been a while.’

She blushed, then went pale; she could not deal with that question now. So, instead of engaging, she diverted back to their first topic of the day. ‘You know, it really is nice being close. You might’ve won me over on the PPE front.’

He narrowed his eyes, but she was not prepared to budge.

Not on this other issue.

Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Lockdown has been an _interesting_ experience for me, to put it mildly. As it has for most people. And it’s been difficult to write. So, despite my best intentions, my main fics are all on hiatus again. But this shorter story (which will be just a few chapters) fell out of me in response to some of the tricky, but weirdly hilarious, things about having a neurological condition right now (Cerebral Palsy, in my case). It’s posted in solidarity with my Black and Trans disabled friends and colleagues, who are experiencing additional struggles. Today also happens to be Global Motor Neurone Disease Awareness Day, so I thought I’d be brave and put this first chapter up. Thanks for reading, and being patient with me. (And thanks to Jojo_In_The_Shadows for being a fab beta and friend.) Stay safe and well.


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